Tourist
by Koi Fish
Summary: Alfred, a normal, American teenager, is anything but thrilled to be spending the most important national holiday overseas. Especially because they probably won't even let him set off fireworks. US/UK/US Rated for language and implied stuff.


Disclaimer: You guys know the drill, I don't own it, or I wouldn't be posting here. I'd be writing for an actual paycheck...which I clearly don't get from FF.

A/N: Originally written for Valentine's Week on the lj USxUK community, rewritten for an early Fourth of July/celebration of my coming vacation to England fic.

* * *

**Tourist**

If it hadn't been for the fact that this was a parent-funded trip and Alfred really had no choice but to enjoy himself, he thought he might take a flying leap off Big Ben. Because really? Who spends the _Fourth of July_ in England? Certainly not Alfred F. Jones. Except apparently this year, he was. Because his mom was a horrible planner and obviously Alfred could not be trusted to stay home alone while his parents were in Britain.

It was only two weeks, he'd argued. And Alfred was seventeen, almost an adult! He could take care of himself for a few weeks, let alone a measly two bedroom apartment. I mean, what did they expect him to do for college next year? Live at home with them? Yeah, right. But he'd lost those arguments and now here he was, stuck in England on Independence Day.

Alfred glared at the sight of London below him. He shouldn't even be allowed in the clock tower. Tours were only open to citizens of the United Kingdom, but his dad had finagled his way around that. Mr. Jones had been born in England and apparently still held dual citizenship. Despite Alfred having just learned that information today, his dad had pleaded and persuaded their way into a free tour, emphasizing how important British culture still was to him and his family. It was pretty much BS, but the MP had bought it.

The tour was ending soon and Alfred had yet to toss himself over the edge of the tower out of melodramatic teen depression. Just as he was contemplating whether it would feel like flying, Alfred registered a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a blonde guy around his age standing behind him.

"You ought to get moving," the kid said, and Alfred immediately noted this guy _had_ to be born and raised in England. His accent was almost ridiculously strong. "Your tour group's leaving without you." He scowled authoritatively and Alfred noticed the things trying to eat the guy's forehead.

"Dude, your eyebrows!" Alfred tried really hard not to laugh, he did, but it wasn't working. "Is that natural? They're like…massive!"

Evidently, that was not the right thing to say, as the blonde guy sort of twitched in an angry kind of way. "If you're done insulting me, would you kindly move along?" he ground out. "There's another group coming."

"Hey, what's your name?" Alfred went on, ignoring the barely concealed order to get the hell away. As he said it, though, he caught sight of a nametag and figured the guy must work here or something.

"Not that it's any of your-"

"Arthur." Alfred smiled. "Like King Arthur? Cool. I'm Alfred." He stuck his hand out to shake and the British guy, Arthur, just stared at it. A few moments later, Arthur shook his head and then took the offered hand against his better judgment.

"Alfred. Like Alfred the Great?"

* * *

By the time they left Big Ben, Alfred felt a little better about spending some time here. At least that Arthur guy had been interesting. He certainly knew his stuff when it came to history. Alfred had ditched his family to walk with Arthur around the clock tower, listening to who Alfred the Great was and a bunch of other stories. He'd had to run to catch up with his parents, but it had been worth the lost time.

The rest of the day was spent wandering around London and Alfred mostly kept his mouth shut when his disappointment slowly set back in throughout the day. He even managed to keep up with the majority of his parents' enthusiasm and fake decent enough smiles.

His true test would be dinner, which he'd been warned ahead of time was going to be a formal affair, and no, they would most likely not have hamburgers on the menu. Alfred grudgingly shook out the slacks and nice coat he'd been told to pack and was mentally preparing himself for the bore of a lifetime when his mom knocked gently on his hotel room door.

"Alfie?" He cringed at the nickname, but…it was a mom thing, right? "You've been very patient today," she said, entering. "And I know this kind of thing isn't your forte, so your father and I were thinking…why don't you go have some fun?"

Alfred did a double take, but yeah, his mom was handing him the British equivalent of about a hundred dollars with a smile. "Wow…really?" That was a bit sudden, but he wasn't going to question it too much, so Alfred took the offered money.

"We know you're disappointed that we're spending the Fourth of July here, so we owe you this much," his mom explained further. "So just…don't spend it all in one place. And keep in mind we _are_ in a foreign country, even if they speak English." With that, she rose, straightened her skirt, laid a kiss on her son's forehead, and exited with a smile and wave.

Alfred was in shock. Freedom to do whatever he wanted for an evening in another country? And they were worried about him staying home for a couple weeks? Were his parents _crazy_? Shaking off the disbelief, Alfred's hand clenched around the pound notes as a grin spread over his face. Oh, this was going to be fun.

* * *

By speaking to the right people, and by virtue of being an attractive young American talking to British girls, Alfred found out that punk rock was still alive and kicking in England. It hadn't even taken that long to get himself into an underground concert of sorts, the bands all Indie rock and unheard of outside this particular scene.

So while his parents were enjoying a civilized meal at a fancy restaurant, Alfred was screaming at the top of his lungs along with songs he'd never heard, jostled between bodies covered in tattoos, piercings, and hair dye. Yeah, they were English and originally the oppressors, but they were loud and celebrating and Alfred was pretty sure he wouldn't be setting off fireworks tonight. At least he could yell and feel like a rebel for a few hours.

At first Alfred had no idea who he was cheering for, screaming at. It was just some British kid belting out a cover of the Sex Pistols and tearing up his guitar. But then a girl with pink streaks in her hair slammed into his side, sending Alfred falling into the side of the low stage. Catching himself (barely), Alfred found himself at eye level with the singer's waist. Within milliseconds the view was replaced with a chest and face, giving Alfred a close-up of green eyes and unmistakable eyebrows.

Arthur grinned at him in that second, looking predatory and nothing like the slightly stodgy Briton Alfred had spent the afternoon with. Alfred felt his breath catch, but when he came to his senses Arthur had already straightened to his normal height and was screaming into the mic.

He was one hundred percent sure his jaw was hanging open, but Alfred couldn't stop it. Four hours ago, this guy had been telling him about the Battle of Trafalgar, bleeding British patriotism, and now he was in a shredded t-shirt, lip pierced, yelling about fucking the system. It was mind-boggling. And…it was kinda hot.

Not to say Alfred was gay or anything, just…hot was hot regardless of gender. And he had liked hanging out with Arthur and would love to do it again. And he wasn't a shallow enough bastard to discount an attraction to someone because they had some of the same parts as him. However, he _was_ shallow enough to already be thinking about what Arthur's skin would taste like and how wide the guy could open his rather pretty mouth when he wanted to…okay, so maybe Alfred wouldn't have such a problem if he was batting for Arthur's team.

Ten minutes later, it appeared Arthur's band was done, as another group began shoving their way onstage. Arthur himself motioned for his band mates to take the stage exit, handing off his guitar to one of them, while he simply dropped to the floor in front of the stage, abruptly invading Alfred's personal bubble. The American could hardly say he was opposed.

"Hey," Alfred nearly shouted to be heard. "Thought you were all proper and stuff."

Arthur laughed and looped his hand around the back of Alfred's neck, pulling him down so that Arthur's mouth was at his ear. "Let's get out of here. I can't bloody hear myself think!" Alfred nodded shakily and followed as Arthur pushed his way through the crowd. Watching Arthur's ass through his tight jeans, Alfred was pretty sure he loved England.

Arthur continued dragging the American behind him, hand latched onto Alfred's shirt, until they reached a wall and the noise had somewhat faded. Arthur moved backward, his back slamming against the wall and pulling Alfred after him. Alfred put up a hand to stop his fall when Arthur tugged him forward. When movement ceased, Arthur had his back to the wall, caged on one side by Alfred's arm supporting him, his own right hand twisted in Alfred's shirt.

"What are you doing here?"

Alfred was surprised he hadn't asked it first, but the question came from Arthur. He grinned brightly, just barely feral beneath the cheerfulness. "Celebrating."

"Celebrating what, might I ask?" As Arthur spoke, his hand drifted from the grip it had over Alfred's stomach to somewhere in the vicinity of his waist, toying with the edge of the taller boy's shirt.

Alfred's grin took a turn toward the predatory. He'd been hoping Arthur would ask. "America's 'Screw the British Day'. Independence, of course."

Arthur scowled for a moment, then looked thoughtful before he pulled Alfred closer by the hip. "Bloody tourist…you'll get into trouble talking like that around here." Fingers slipped into the waist of Alfred's jeans and Arthur began grinning right back at him. "You're lucky you've got me to look out for you."

"Uh-huh," Alfred muttered, moving forward until his nose brushed against Arthur's. "And just how _lucky_ am I, exactly?"

Arthur looked positively wicked as he answered, "_Very._"

* * *

-and then Alfred's parents had some really awkward questions when he got back to the hotel room covered in what he claimed were bruises. God, I hope my trip is that entertaining...

Reviews please? They give me motivation and joy!


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